Rip Van Winkle slept in the mountains for twenty years. As he slept, he had many strange dreams, wherein ghostly sailors sent heavy bowling balls crashing into gargantuan pins. The symbolic meaning of this dream is not well understood, but it sounds mostly entertaining.
The author of this blog slept for sixty two days, which is not as impressive, though arguably just as worrisome for his friends and loved ones. It's certainly shy of the record, and he likely will not make another attempt.
This blogger also had many strange dreams. Some were pleasant, and some were sad, but all hinted at a life better lived awake.
He dreamt that he flew for thousands of miles to the heart of the country, to reunite with family and say goodbye to one who will be greatly missed. It was a beautiful week of spring weather and thriving nature, set against the backdrop of a shimmering blue lake and populated by weirdly courageous deer.
He dreamt of meeting a beautiful girl, who brightened his days and lent hope to his future, and then disappeared into the mist (where she was possibly eaten by a tiger). He brooded a while on a windswept mountaintop, then came back down to write some poems.
He dreamt that he was back at school, with graduation day fast approaching. Anticipation for summer was high in the air, and it was all that he could do to keep everyone from fleeing for sunshine and neglecting their studies. Also there was a talent show, and this one girl played the drums like a maniac.
He dreamt that he saw a great city, where people dressed in strange costumes and roamed the streets in search of pocky, which is strange because pocky isn't found in the streets. The people welcomed him as one of their own, but soon ignored him, consumed as they were with an all-encompassing passion for stale, imported chocolate.
He also had a really awesome dream where he could slide down the interstate for miles upon miles on some sort of rocket sled. Such a machine would likely kill at least sixty per cent of its users, yet it is a crime against the human spirit that it has not been invented.
All of this he dreamed, and when he awoke much around him had changed. Not very much, but much. Osama bin Ladin is dead now, and that probably makes a difference. Yet the world still turns around much as it always has, in spite of certain predictions to the contrary. The sleeper has awoken, and it's time to get things turning again.
OK, I wasn't really sleeping. Well, I was, but only for about eight to ten hours of each of those sixty two days. There isn't really a good reason that I wasn't blogging, except that I hadn't written very much and didn't really have anything to say. Hopefully, that changes this week.
The plan is to have the final, chilling installment of The Wolf of Albright completed this Thursday, thus bringing an end to my experiment with the horror genre. Once again, I apologize if it isn't very scary! We're all learning something here.
After that, I've got another batch of my poetical output to unleash on the world, thereby raising everyone's sadly contemplative quotient by at least three per cent. It's important to have goals.
Lastly, a word about Memorial Day. I'm not sure how it keeps sneaking up on me, but it seems like as good a day as any for a cheeseburger. I have a single priority for the day: produce and consume a cheeseburger. I suggest you do the same, within the limits of your own dietary regulations and habits.